I found a book
by Lady-L-Leafdawn
Summary: on how to be invisible. Rodney Skinner's stories/ramblings about life before the league, how he met the first invisible man, and how he became invisible, himself.
1. Chapter 1

There's a lot of room for fanfic about Rodney Skinner. This is pretty much my take on what could be an interesting back-story. It shouldn't be terribly long since I definitely don't have the patience for that, but it will be longer than anything I've finished before (providing I actually finish it.)

Possible smut in a later chapter because of my invisibility kink, but I'll write it in such a way that it is not necessary to read that chapter to get the full effect of the "story" in case the hypothetical reader would rather not.

Note: There are cameos and mentions of other fictional works that take place in a similar time period as LXG did. It's all pretty fudged around and whatnot, but I'll leave another note at the end telling you which references I'd intended. You know, for those of you who are interested.

Oh, and in case I have to say this: I don't own anything here, really.

**(s)**

Some might say that powers come with a certain responsibility. The power of invisibility is not one of those powers, and to tell the truth, people don't seem to expect much from you if that's what makes you "extraordinary." At the very least, they assume you're dishonest, and at worst they think you're a raving lunatic likely to go off on a killing rampage at any second.

After meeting the original invisible man, I can't say I blame them.

Excuse me; I'm being rude, aren't I? Allow me to introduce myself; Rodney Skinner, Gentleman Thief and Invisible Man II.

I started my criminal career at the tender age of seven. Or was it four? I was young is all I know. Dearest Frankie said they'd picked me up down at the docks where Crusty Old Jake sat, mumbling to himself and anyone who'd stop and listen. I was taken in, as most of the street rats were, by an old kidsman known as the Artful Dodger, perhaps you've heard of him.

Well, he raised us right, the old Dodger did. I grew up in a caring home where there was always someone around to help you, for a reasonable price, and though most of us would go out and find our own shelter more and more as we got older, if you ever hit a rut the Dodger was always there with a leaky roof over your head, moth-eaten rags for your blankets, and some ill-gotten food to drive away the hunger pains. And when his less savory suppliers came a-calling he'd do his best to keep us safe.

Obviously, he couldn't keep all of us safe, but he sure tried to. I guess I'll never really know what made him protect us like that.

I had a few buddies I worked closely with through those years. There was Frankie, of course, but he was usually off with the older boys as I was growing up. I spent most of my life with Alfred Doolittle. Alfie and I had adventures, usually with Ralph until Ralph ran off to join the navy and "make his fortune." Can't say I ever forgave the little bastard for it. But Alfie and I got along just fine without him.

"It's right damn selfish is what it is, if you ask me," Alfie grumbled, "that's what it is, Rodney, just another case of the selfishness of human beings. All they ever do is think about themselves, what they want, what's good for them, never once stopping to think of how they're affecting the people around them."

I glanced over at him, covered in dirt examining the pocket handkerchief he'd just lifted from an old woman's purse, "You're talking about other people, right Alfie? Not yourself and your noble and selfless occupation as a pick-pocket?"

He looked up at me, shocked, "Well, of course I mean other people, Rodney, what you take me for? I have to be selfish; it's how you and I keep up business. Problem is, there's different types of selfish, Rodney, and Ralph was not a useful type of selfish. He'll figure it out in the end, Rodney; he'll find out that it was a stupid kind of selfish that he got all caught up in and then he'll be sorry for it, though it won't do him much good. It's 'cause of what I said, Rodney, that there's different kinds of selfish." I nodded. There wasn't anything I could do to stop Alfred from voicing his views on the world, no matter how silly they might be, and I wasn't in the mood to try. I just needed to work, get some odd trinkets of value, get them back to Dodger, get some food in my stomach and thoughts of Ralph out of my head. Ralph Rackstraw was gone and there was nothing to be done to get him back. "You see, Rodney, there's selfish like you and me and the rest of Dodger's gang, we're doing it so we can live and all, because what are we going to do otherwise? We'll be shipped off to the workhouses otherwise and never see another happy day; you know that's the case in those places. And we know all these high-born ladies and gents don't need half the stuff they run around with," he waved the handkerchief at my face and I shoved him away. He stumbled but recovered and put the square of silk back in his pocket. "You know how we know this, Rodney?"

"Because we get along fine without it?" I answered.

"Cause WE get along fine without it! We don't need fancy things except to sell them back to the people we stole them from and buy our food. Now, Rackstraw was always a different kind of selfish. He'd off and fall in love with ladies above his station and the trick is they'd actually like him back. He had secrets, I tell you, secrets to a lady's heart, and that slimy old codger never bothered to share them with anyone else, especially not me. And then, then he up and leaves us for the bloody navy claiming he could make more money on it than on anything we do, wouldn't listen to a word of sense when I says he's being an idiot, just gets offended and takes off. Just like that, out of our lives forever." Alfie tugged down the brim of his hat and folded his arms over his chest. "Worst mistake of his life, if you ask me."

I nodded, "Well, you're right on most everything there."

He turned around indignantly, "I'm right on everything, what makes you think I've got something wrong?"

I grinned at him, my best debonair and charming grin, "He didn't tell YOU anything on how to woo upper-class ladies, but I was his number one apprentice." I dodged Alfie's halfhearted attempt to throw a punch.

"Ah, come off it, Rodney, we both know you're as hopeless I am. You wouldn't have the charm to woo an upper-crust whore. You'd just grab at her and run off as she set her dogs on you."

"Maybe true, but at least I've got the option to never meet her."

I put on my best smug grin as Alfie grumbled, "bloody hell, not this again."

"Now, Alfie, mind your language and be happy that I had the patience to learn all the fancy writing and reading that you and Ralph thought was ridiculous. I told you it could come in handy if we actually paid attention to that fancy book stuff we got when that idiot Jack mistook that library for a mansion."

"Hey, hey," Alfie clamped a dirty hand over my mouth, "watch what you say about Jack. You know he's Big Charlie's favorite, you want to get us killed?"

I pushed him off of me and made a show of spitting the taste of his hand out on the pavement. "Relax, Alfie, do you see Big Charlie around here? Calm down." Alfie checked the streets a few more times and shook his head. "Spoken words have a power, Rodney, I've seen it and it sure isn't right to try and challenge it. You know if you talk about something long enough it influences things. The rest of the world , or even just the person next to you, words affect them, Rodney, they change the things what are already there and there isn't much you can do to change them back once they have been changed. And that's because-"

I growled in mock anger and stopped to lean up against a wall "God, Alfie, would you give it a rest? I know for a fact I've heard this speech at least a billion times before and it doesn't get any more interesting with each retelling." Alfred stared at me and crossed his arms, surprisingly quiet. "There, that's better. Now, we ready to head back to Dodger's?" I stuck my hands in my pockets and made a mental note of the contents. Two handkerchiefs, one embroidered but it was good quality silk and worth the extra work of removing the stitching; a pocket watch that seemed to be in working order, Alfie and I had wasted some time standing in front of a clock tower, seeing if the two were truly matched up; and half a roll that I'd stolen from a bakery for some sort of lunch. All in all, it wasn't bad for a weekday afternoon. "And you've got a handkerchief and that wallet, right?"

"I do. It's too bad that wallet didn't have much in it. Could've used the extra money."

"We could use a lot of things, Alfie. Come on, let's get on back home."

**(**_**I)**_

As I've said before, the Dodger was a kidsman and to some of you gentler folk this might be considered the worst crime a person could commit, forcing children to do his dirty work, but he was a lot better than most of the criminals I saw crawling through the back alleys and I tell you there's some out there treating people like I was much worse than Dodger ever treated his gang. Big Charlie was one of them.

He started out as a smalltime pickpocket and thief, like the rest of us, living in rundown buildings and coming to Dodger for a bite to eat every once in a while. Thing is, he was always a lot larger than the average boy and, unlike how it usually is in storybooks, his vicious looks were definitely in line with his personality. I hear he used to be careless as a pickpocket because he figured that even a grown man wouldn't be able to win against him in a fight and take the stolen items back again, and for the most part he was right. According to Mrs. Hope, the lunatic old prostitute on Fleet Street, he got stealthier after being caught and beaten by the police, but I don't know how true any of the story is. That's the way with history back then. If you weren't there, all you had to go by was the overblown gossip of street rats and whores.

By the time I showed up Big Charlie was a successful house-breaker but, as is often the case, he needed the help of a smaller companion who could fit in windows and open the house from the inside. This partner had to be small, a short and skinny man or, more often, a child. I was on the list of possible sneaks to be used, although I was in my mid-teens by then, so I was a great deal larger than many other possible children. But what I lacked in the most efficient size, I more than made up for with stealth and smarts.

Well, this may seem entirely off-topic, and probably is but you're listening to what are possibly the ramblings of a madman so you don't have much room to complain. The point is that in pondering the question of "Could I be a better thief than Charlie and his gang?" I began my journey towards meeting the original invisible man, both in flesh and in spirit. I say once again, he is an awful man, but I guess we'll get to that later.

In any case, once I had realized that _I_ wouldn't need a breaker like, I had the brilliant idea to share my marvelous findings with Alfred. His response was a little more cynical and sarcastic than one would hope from a lifelong bosom friend and all.

"Oh, congratulations, Rodney! This is amazing! You've just invented robbery."

"Well, there, see? It would work."

"Don't even think of it."

"But it would."

"We're PICKPOCKETS, Rodney."

"I'm going to do it."

"Goddammit, Rodney, why do you want to do more work for less pay?"

"Who says it'd be less pay?"

"I says! What can YOU come out of a house with that will make it worth the effort of breaking in?"

"I dunno… Jewelry, silverware maybe?" I pondered this for a few moments, "I could sew a lot of pockets on the inside of my shirt, store more things in them. A lot of valuable small things ought to be worth the same or more than one valuable large thing" Alfred glared at me.

"You aren't seriously considering this," he said. I grinned at him. "God, Rodney, it's a stupid idea."

"But, see, that's why it's brilliant! And you know it'll work."

Alfie was very quiet for a while, which was unusual. I usually counted on him to talk me out of my stupidest ideas, like when I'd suggested that we steal a delivery cart full of baked goods. I was always thinking things up, but they were usually ridiculous and not exactly helpful. For the most part I went through with them anyways. I'd stolen that cart and driven it about three blocks before the runners caught up with me. I was rarely successful, but I also never seemed to get caught. Now, Alfie's lack of protest either meant that he agreed with my stupid idea or was too worn out to reason against it anymore. Neither of those options seemed very likely.

"You're right, you know," he sighed, "if anyone of this group was meant to be a house-breaker on his own, it'd be you." I blinked in surprise. I was right? No, that couldn't be, I was wrong and it was a stupid idea but that never stopped me from doing these things anyways. "Besides" Alfie said, echoing my thoughts "no matter how much I try to drive some sense into you, I know you'll still go through with it."

The grin on my face stretched from ear to ear, "Oh, I knew you'd come around, Alfie! I knew it was just a matter of time before you got bored of the lazy route and came to join me on the stupid and reckless side."

"Now, hold onto your hat, Rodney, I said 'on your own'"

"Of course you did, Alfie, but I'll need someone to stand as my lookout, won't I?"

_**(I)**_

The lookout trick worked perfectly. Alfie was lazy and always wanted more credit than what he was worth, but I needed him along. Call it nerves or paranoia or whatever you like but I always work better in a group than by myself, no matter what I might say. Having him along for this job was really more of a security blanket than anything else.

It was a relatively simple break-in. We chose a house in the wealthier side of town, and as fewer and fewer people were walking the street I crept in through the back door used by the servants. I passed by the table where the butlers and maids would prepare tea for the house and I noticed a newspaper folded open to the "help wanted" section. Perhaps I was more stressed than I thought because I took the worthless paper and tucked it into one of the many new pockets in my outfit.

I opened cabinets and drawers, leaving the silverware which portrayed the family crest and was actually made of tin, anyways. Silly westies, the crested platters and odds and ends might've made them look richer from far away, but you don't hold a spoon eighteen meters away from your face when you're trying to eat with it. Still, I found a few things that would fetch a decent price and fit in one of my pockets. Bagged spices from the Far East, some fancy place-setters that were easily folded up and tucked away, this was going to be easier than I'd originally thought. I could leave now and the money we could get would be entirely worth the effort I'd made, but there was probably more upstairs.

After perhaps three seconds of inner debate, I decided to take my chances on the rest of the house. If I found some family jewels, even cheap ones, I could truly call this outing a success. I snuck through each room in near darkness, feeling around for small objects of value, slowly and carefully and as quiet as I could possibly be. By the time I made it up the stairs and found the family rooms where the more valuable possessions were kept, I was feeling much more confident.

I pushed open the door to the first room and made straight for the dimly outlined armoire where I figured the jewelry would be held. I slid my hand around the smooth surface and found what I was looking for. Light chains, lace pendants, there was a cameo pin that I decided to leave put in case it was a portrait of someone specific, the rest, I stuck in my pocket. I moved on to the first drawer, but as the wood slid over wood, I heard the rustling of fabric behind me.

"Edmund? Lydia? Are you back already?" croaked the tired voice of an older woman. My blood ran cold. I hadn't thought there would be someone else in the house when I'd broken in. We'd made sure that the family who lived here would be out and about when I was working but there was obviously still someone here. It wasn't that I was afraid of this woman, she sounded weak and frail, but she could scream and bring neighbors and police running in no time at all. "Are you there?" she asked and then she waited for a very long while. I stood very still, praying that it was dark enough that she couldn't see me. My ears strained against the silence, broken by the steady ticking of the clock, but eventually I could tell that the woman had gone back to sleep. I let out a sigh of relief and realized I'd been holding my breath the entire time.

Right, that was too close; it was definitely time to get out of here. I grabbed what felt like a string of pearls, tucked it in my shirt and made for the door. I'd only just gotten to the stairs when I heard the front door crashing open under the force of a small, drunken parade. Apparently Edmund and Lydia had brought home some friends.

Not good, not good, not good at all. I backtracked down the hall to the window. That was my only option now. True, I was on the second floor of the building, but getting out of this with my life and perhaps a broken leg would be better than being dragged to the clink by a group of drunk-mad westies.

I frantically tore open the narrow outlet and looked out at the hard, unforgiving ground below. I paused; barely any distance away from me was a balcony on the second floor of the building right next to this one. That was my new best-case scenario. Without a second thought, I launched myself through the window and scrambled onto the platform that kept me from smashing painfully against the rock pathway below. I quickly ducked inside the dark room to catch my breath and arrange a plan of action.

"Hello there," I whirled around to see a ten year old girl, lighting a candle by the side of her bed. The excitement of the night had enhanced my senses and in the first seconds of our encounter I noticed and memorized every detail of this little girl. She wore a pale blue nightgown with a darker blue lace trim, her hair was light brown and hung in loose curls around her shoulders, she was skinny in a sickly way and her skin had a yellowish color that I don't think was only the fault of the candlelight. Her eyes were dark brown and she stared at me with curiosity. The bedclothes piled up around her were pure white, the likes of which I'd only seen on newly stolen handkerchiefs and on the ruffled shirts of the wealthy. Suddenly, I realized she'd said something.

"I'm sorry, what?"

The girl looked at me in surprise, "I asked you what your name is. Why do you talk so strangely like that and why did you come in through my window?"

It seemed she was too curious to scream for an adult, which was a great relief to me. I smiled my most charming smile and made a large show of bowing to her, "The humblest of apologies, my lady, I'm Rodney Skinner, Gentleman Thief and I've come in through your window because I had a bit of a problem next door. Nasty people there, don't you know?"

She frowned, "You don't sound like a gentleman. Have you come to rob me? Well you can't. I'm sick and it's a terrible crime to steal from a sick little girl."

"You're sick? Well, dear lady, that's dreadful, but I'll tell you this, any thief who isn't a gentleman, like myself, would laugh at you and take everything you own, anyways. Me? I'm more respectable than that. I wasn't planning on robbing you, anyways, but now that I know of the poor lady's hardships, why it pains me to think that such an idea could pass through anyone's mind." The girl smiled. Oh, this was fun; I'd never gotten to play the morality game with anyone but beggars and thieves before. Now, an honest-to-god blueblood was impressed with my manners.

"Well, your talking is strange, but I think you sound like a gentleman," she said, "I think I shall call you Sir Rodney the honorable. You shall be a nobleman in disguise. Like a knight! Have you read of King Arthur, Sir Rodney?"

"Only a small amount, my lady," I answered, "We don't put much stock in books where I come from."

"Oh, well, they're lovely stories and I read them all the time. That's all I can do when I'm sick. I read books and the newspapers when I can get them. Mrs. Dean says a young lady shouldn't read the papers and that they will just upset me, but I don't mind."

"But of course!" I exclaimed, remembering the old folded up paper in my pocket. I brought it out with a flourish. Her eyes lit up brighter than the candle at her side.

"Sir Rodney, would you be as kind as to hand me the gossip section of that paper?" I bowed to her and flipped through, removing the dull help-wanted ads and anything else that didn't seem exciting. I passed her the rest. Her eyes darted across the pages, fully sunk into those stories of scandal. I sat down on the floor and glanced through the pages I had left.

I don't know how long the two of us sat in silence. Everything was calm and quiet, which was strange for me. Considering what had happened earlier that night, it was a very nice sort of strange. Eventually, though, I began to think of Alfie. He was still on lookout, or perhaps he'd given up on me and run off to drink his sorrows and talk the ears off of anyone who happened to pass by. "I'm ruined, I tells you, ruined. My old chums, if you could even call them that, have left me. That idiot Rackstraw went off to fight for mother England what hasn't done nothing to help him his whole life and Skinner went and got himself caught and likely killed since he's used up all his luck, he has." I could hear it now. And how was I to call myself a gentleman when I let some poor sob get himself talked to death all because I was reading a newspaper with a little girl?

I stood up and bowed to her. "My lady, I must be getting off soon to save a poor soul the torture of having to listen to my friend and his ravings."

She nodded, "Do you think you could come back, Rodney? It gets awfully lonely here."

I smiled at her, "Of course, and I'll bring you a newspaper every time, alright?"

"Thank you, sir." She paused, "if you don't want to go through the house, there's a pipe next to the balcony that goes all the way to the ground. Sometimes I think I'll slide down it and run away to have an adventure, but I know I can't."

"Well, I thank you kindly miss…"

"Earnshaw. I'm Catherine Earnshaw III."

"Well, my lady Earnshaw, I wish you a lovely evening and I shall be sure to come back very soon. Good night."

"Good night, Sir."

_**(I)**_

Reference for my references:

The Artful Dodger- Oliver Twist

Alfred P. Doolittle- Pygmalion/My Fair Lady

Ralph Rackstraw- H.M.S. Pinafore (and here you can see I smudged the timeline quite a bit)

Mrs. Hope- Sweeney Todd (a grim possible future for the poor tormented Johanna)

Catherine Earnshaw III- Wuthering Heights (the granddaughter of the second Catherine Earnshaw)

Mrs. Dean- Wuthering Heights (obviously not THE Nelly Dean, but a descendant who still serves the Earnshaw household as Cathy's maid)


	2. Chapter 2

**()**

I didn't know it at the time, but meeting that little invalid was my first step to becoming the invisible man. I'd show up every few days, whenever I could find a newspaper with a story I thought she'd enjoy, and we'd sit and read. Through the help adds that she always ignored I found a side job as a clean-up boy for a renowned scientist, Dr. Cranley, and his students.

Rude and untrustful, they were, always worrying about someone coming along to steal their research and making all sorts of money off it. You should keep in mind, of course, that's what they were trying to do to everyone else. Of course, these ridiculous suspicions made it incredibly difficult to be their cleaning boy. Everyone was always skulking about as if I was trying to make off with their precious research I didn't even understand. Yes, I'm a thief, but I wasn't at all interested in stealing their musty old books and chemicals… at first.

Every once in a while I'd come across a paper of formulas or a book open to the effects of the strange smelly liquid in the glass out on the table and I'd read through it. For a while, I had no idea what any of it meant, but eventually I started recognizing things. If enough chemicals were left out, I'd see what the letters and numbers did in the real world. I'd never consider myself a scholar but I knew enough to follow directions.

I took care not to get caught and it made me almost as paranoid as the old bastards who ran the place, but at least I kept the job. It was only a few pence every week but combined with what I earned from the Dodger and the fact that I didn't have to worry about paying rent and I rarely went hungry. Science was a great and wonderful thing, full of logic and reason and an explanation for everything, according to the discussions I'd eavesdropped on.

I always took the time to share these views with Cathy as Alfred would never put up with someone talking longer than he could, but Cathy was the best audience a fellow could have. I would add details to my stories, suspenseful moments when I was almost caught by my superiors, slightly overdone accounts of what machinery and chemicals could do. Tiny creatures that lived inside of us, liquids that could destroy metals, blueprints for carriages that moved without horses, science could do it all and more. In the dimly lit room of Cathy's family apartment, science became almost magical and in this new world anything was possible and everything could be explained by those who had the intelligence to explain it. No matter if we didn't understand, someone else always would.

This might be why I was not at all bothered by what I eventually found out about sweet little Cathy.

It had been a while since we'd met, a few years at least, and I'd never asked Cathy about her illness. It was another thing I'd left to science to explain as I wasn't all that interested in medicine, too much blood. However, I'd recently come across a paper translated from German about diseases of the mind and since I found them to be slightly less full of blood I'd taken an interest and thought perhaps this could relate to my lady confined to her room.

"Cathy," I asked, "what exactly is this sickness of yours?" I was planning on diagnosing her (oh, lovely scientific words!) with a mental disorder that would be easily cured with a simple electroshock therapy that would free her from this prison of a room.

"Oh, I'm not actually sick," she answered, not looking up from the pages, "Did you hear that the youngest Bennet is rumored to have run off with an infantry man? Staggering, isn't it? He's so far below her station!"

I paused. She wasn't sick? But she had said that she was when we met. Why would she be locked up here in this room if she was not ill? I was confused. Investigations were in order.

"uh… what?" I said, very eloquently.

"It's simply not done! They say it's an elopement, you know."

"No, what… I thought… you said you were sick," she put down the paper and turned to me, "when we first met, you said you were sick."

"I thought you were going to rob me, and it's not far from the truth. My parents believe that I'm sick and that I'm possessed by demons. I find it is far easier just to agree with them and promise that I'll try to get better," she sighed, "but there's no getting better from this, and I wouldn't want to. It's a very useful talent." Her eyes lit up and she turned to me, very excited. "Would you like me to show you?" I nodded, unsure of what to say. Perhaps my poor Cathy really was a lunatic and what if she could never get better? She'd end up like Mrs. Hope, insane and alone on the streets, begging for crumbs and turning street urchins into men for a half-rusted penny. The insanity would be the least of her illness problems.

I sat watching her, terrified at these thoughts, though I couldn't really place why, not really paying attention to what she was doing until there was a loud crack. Her thin wrist had hit the wooden paneling of her bed. She began to thrash around and I began to panic. Another loud noise like that could draw the attention of Mrs. Dean and what in the world was going on? I grabbed her arms, holding them down at her sides, pinning one with my knee so I could reach up and keep her head away from the ornately carved boards she'd just thrown her arm against. The red mark on her wrist looked like it might become a bruise. Cathy shook against my side.

"Cathy, please stop this. Cathy, this isn't funny anymore," I heard the panic creeping up in my voice. I had no idea what to do other than wait this out and that didn't seem like such a good idea when this… whatever this was could last for hours. I pushed that thought out of my mind and focused on keeping Cathy's body still. She couldn't be hurt. She'd done this to herself, right? She knew what she was doing, after all, it was her- I didn't want to call it an illness when she'd insisted she wasn't sick, but I what else could it have been? My hands were shaking just enough that I couldn't blame it all on keeping Cathy still and I realized she was settling down. I let her go and sat on the bed just close enough to grab her again if she started up. As I watched, she began to glow. It was bloody strange but for some reason I wasn't worried anymore. The light began to move away from her until it floated up near the ceiling. Cathy gasped.

"Cathy? Cathy, are you hurt?" She coughed like a chimney sweep for a long while.

"See? Isn't he grand?" she croaked afterwards, nodding towards the lantern fog floating in midair.

"No! Not if you could've killed yourself!"

"I'm getting better at it, you know."

I stared at her. "This was better? God, Cathy, that's sick is what this is, you're sick and you ooze green light. There must be a scientific record of something like this."

"It's not green light, silly, it's a person" I stared at her. My friend was undeniably a lunatic, poor girl. I shook my head.

"Cathy, look at it, that isn't a-" I turned around and choked on the last word. The green light had shifted and taken the form of a man in military garb, hovering above our heads.

"Good day, Miss Catherine." He greeted her with a stiff bow. "May I be introduced to your friend?"

"Of course, Sir Rodney Skinner, I am terribly honored to present the late General Wallace Roberts." I stood up and made a sweeping bow.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, sir," I said, realizing with surprise that I wasn't actually surprised by the man's appearance.

The general frowned at me, "Now, Cathy, are you certain it is a good idea to let strange men into your room, without a chaperone? People might talk."

"Oh, Rodney's a real gentleman, sir, and people can't talk because they don't know about this."

"Is that so? He doesn't sound like much of a gentleman to me."

"He's in hiding," she whispered, "you must tell no one, but Sir Rodney is royalty in disguise. He's running from his wicked uncle who wants to kill him and take over the kingdom, but as long as Rodney is only missing, his country will be ruled by the kind Steward who raised Rodney since he was a boy." I bowed again, playing along with Cathy's far-fetched story.

"It's true, and every day I mourn the loss of my gentility and all those fancy little place settings and cups with my name carved into every one," I placed a hand on my chest for dramatic effect, "why, some days it's near unbearable to go on without my fancy silk pillows for to rest my royal behind."

The general stared at me, obviously unamused, "Yes, well, if it would not be too rude of me, I'm going to go pay a visit to the man who killed me, tell him it was a good show. Until next time, dearest Cathy." She waved at him as he floated away, passing through the wall of the room with ease. Then she picked up the slightly crumpled gossip section, smoothed it out and began to read again.

"I'm not sick, Rodney, I can just talk to ghosts."

"Well, isn't that interesting."

_**()**_

Someone else might have doubted what they saw, assumed they, themselves, were going insane, or worried about the repercussions of speaking with the dead. Not me. Science could explain all this, someone smarter than I was would understand and the more I thought about it, the easier it was to believe that Cathy knew what she was doing. She didn't need help, she was doing fine. Yes, the first part had been… odd, but the time before the ghost would appear was becoming less and less with each attempt. I began to take her word as the truth, at least about ghosts.

"Some of the formerly living are far less sophisticated than the general, they would hurt me if I gave them the ability to do so, but I don't"

"Sometimes the formerly living are sad and I give them their final wishes."

"I let a five year old cholera victim use my body so she could eat a chocolate tart. Poor darling. However, this was an interesting discovery for the field of possession, I think."

"Oh no, I never have to worry about possession I don't authorize, I'm always entirely in control."

"Relax, Rodney, darling, I am in control of the situation, the poor man just wants to smell a rose one more time. Now, be a dear and fetch me one, will you?"

"Seances have become all the rage, dear, of course it would be a good idea to get in on the business."

I agreed with her, my little Cathy was growing up and she knew what she was doing. I have to admit, I was proud of her and a little bit jealous when she started raking in the shillings on her own, but it only lasted until she handed me a loaf of bread. I am not a prideful person, dearies, food is food and a friend willing to share it with you is a true godsend, I tell you.

_**()**_

While I was working for Dr. Cranely, I only ran into the invisible man once. At that time he was known as Dr. Hawley Griffin and was, well, clearly visible, of course, and I was technically working for him.

I was cleaning up the chemicals someone had spilled on the floor when he stepped into the room. I looked up to see who it was and stared. See, I'd never seen another albino before. I reckon it's hard to tell, seeing as you can't see me, but I happen to be one, myself. An albino street rat ain't a good thing to be in the alleyways of London, though, I soon found out. I'd dyed my hair with shoe polish I stole from a stand on the street and the dirt and grime of where we lived was enough to keep my skin from attracting attention. Griffin, on the other hand, was an upstanding scientist which meant he kept his hair short and his skin clean. He was mostly clean shaven, if he had stubble it was pale enough to blend in perfectly with his skin. While my eyes were shaded enough by my black shoe-polished bangs, he wore a pair of dark glasses that were almost like goggles. I realized that he was staring back at me.

Immediately, I looked away, back to the mess I was cleaning up. I heard Grifffin grunt, gather up some glass bottles and leave the room.

My first encounter with the invisible man had gone quite smoothly.

_**()**_

After that, things went very bad, very fast. The invisible man scandal was in all the papers. A scientist fallen into madness who became a mass murderer with a body count in the hundreds over the course of a few weeks. Science, itself, was responsible for giving him the power to do this and people grew afraid. Dr. Cranely's laboratories had a difficult time finding people willing to sponsor the group of geniuses who had accidentally created a monster. Funding dropped, budgets were trimmed, and I was fired.

It was back to being a full-time thief for me.

I didn't have much time to sit and think anymore, but when I did I thought about Griffin and his invisibility. True, it was awful what he'd done to all those people, but the man must have been brilliant. Imagine it: to be able to move, completely undetected by human eyes. It sure would have helped me in my current business.

Not only that, but Dr. Kemp assured the worried public in an interview that the method used by Griffin would only have worked on an albino. This could have been a lie just to keep a worried public from becoming an all-out mob, demanding that Griffin's notes be found and destroyed, but it still spoke to me.

No other thief would be looking for the notes because how many ambitious albino thieves could there be in England?

I'd studied the reports, the interviews, even the gossip columns and I knew where I needed to start my search.

Thomas Marvel had a puffed-up look to him. He looked like a man who put a little too much stock in his own worth, especially since he'd been a drunken, homeless rotter until he came into some money recently. The old bastard owed the invisible man everything, the papers said it all. People talked that he'd got the money from when he helped Griffin rob banks. He'd been his accomplice and had stabbed him in the back. Not only that, but he went and named his inn The Invisible Man, as if being beaten to death by an angry mob wasn't insult enough to the scientific genius.

Perhaps if I'd known how Griffin was, I'd have been more sympathetic. I knew he was a murderer, but other than that, he was brilliant. And he was like me. Maybe I wouldn't have killed anyone, but stealing from a bank, now that was a thought for my poor, empty stomach.

I quietly stepped off the train at the station near Port Stowe. I had no luggage and simply walked calmly out over the tracks to avoid security. I was in no mood to pay for a train ticket with money I didn't have, especially when I had spent the entire ride huddled among boxes and gypsies in a supply car. I'd save my money for the inn.

I didn't have very far to walk, and by that time at night most of the town was fast asleep. I slipped unnoticed through the streets to a newly repainted building. The sign out front informed me that I'd arrived at the right place. I scoffed at it and turned to knock on the door. As soon I did I heard scrambling and a slamming of doors, small doors, as someone yelled "Just a moment, I'll be there in a moment." I grinned. This was almost too easy, if the man behind the door was Thomas Marvel then he was hiding those books, or something else just as valuable, in a safe in that room. If it weren't true, I'd eat my head.

The man opened the door and, sure enough, introduced himself as Thomas Marvel. "I'd like a room for a few nights, if you don't mind. How much is the cost?"

"Well, it's ten shillings each night if you won't be eating," he laughed, "Fourteen if you'd like supper on the house." I cringed. I guess I would be going hungry until I could pull this off. I pulled the money out of my pocket and handed it to him.

"I'll take a room for the night."

Mr. Marvel nodded, "Right this way, sir." He led me up a set of creaky stairs and down a hallway. After fumbling around in his pockets he pulled out a ring of keys and opened one of the doors. It groaned as he opened it and turned to me, pulling the ring apart to hand me the key. "If you'd like food, you can come down to the bar, but don't be ridiculous about your times." I nodded at the useless information and grabbed the key. "There's a gas lamp on the bedside table, but that'll be extra on your tab. I ain't made of money."

"Of course," I said. I'd never had any use for a lamp anyways. I stepped into the room, trying to make out where everything was from the fuzzy outlines in the dark.

"Will you be expecting any luggage?"

"None. I'm thinking I won't be here very long, places to go and things to see."

"Of course," I heard the door slide shut and the latch fall in place. Mr. Marvel's footsteps slowly faded as he walked down the hall. Was he going back to where the books were? Or was he going to sleep? I couldn't tell, and I had to be certain before I went after it, but I didn't have much time. My funds weren't exactly unlimited. I took a breath to calm my nerves.

"Relax, Rodney," I whispered to myself, "First things first, we have to make sure that he's asleep. So we wait, nice and quiet-like. Enjoy this while you can." I turned to the nearest shadowy object. "For example, you've never spent a night in a bed that didn't have rats and fleas in it, now have you?" A grin spread over my face and I flopped face-first on the mattress. Not nearly as soft as what Cathy had but she was some ancient line of royalty with money. I rolled over on my back and stared up at the ceiling.

Cathy had gotten a lot better since she had started bringing up ghosts for the wealthy thrill seekers. Séances were all the rage in London and she had an actual talent for summoning the dead, so it fit, and her father went along with it because he believed it was all a hoax. She was finally allowed out of bed, out of her room, and she was getting better, and it showed. She still looked like someone who had been locked in the house her entire childhood, but now she looked like a **lady** who'd been locked up her whole childhood. And now she was up and about most of the time, walking for the sake of walking, skipping, dancing, all in real top-notch outfits. Very tight-fitting dresses, most of them, or when I usually came over and she still wore her nightclothes, just a light cotton dress and bloomers, a dress easily caught and pulled tight over certain places… hm…

I grinned; now at least I had something to do while I waited.

_**()**_

The inn had been quiet for long enough. Marvel had to be asleep, so it was time for me to go. The books were in some secret safe in the parlor, that much I was sure of from the amount of noise he'd made before opening the door. All I had to do was find it, pick the lock, grab the books, and get the hell out of there. I almost wished I could stay longer, relax a while, but even with the books, I would be a long ways away from becoming invisible and that was my top priority. I had to keep moving before anyone could figure out what I was up to.

As quietly as I could, I snuck down the creaky hallway and stairs. I slipped the metal box of matches out of my pocket, striking one on the rough wooden counter and using it to light the oil lamp sitting there. I picked it up, looking around for anything suspicious looking. Nothing seemed out of place so I turned to the locked doors in plain sight.

It wasn't unusual for a cupboard to be locked up at an inn, but it would be a safe place to hide the books. I reached up with my lock picks and started on the first door. The house-breaking had been wonderful practice for this, eventually I'd realized that getting in through windows was not always going to be an option and had invested in some lock picks. A few minutes later the lock clicked, the door swung open and I was disappointed. There was nothing out of the ordinary inside. I moved on to the next locked door.

Fifteen minutes later, all the drawers were opened and I had nothing to show for it. I thought I'd found it when I unlocked a box hidden in cupboard number three, but there was nothing out of the ordinary to it. I was stuck. The books had to be in this room, they had to. I'd heard him hide them, I knew they were here.

"If I were Thomas Marvel, where would I hide my invaluably precious books?" Perhaps he didn't know how valuable they were. No, that didn't make sense, he would've handed them back over to the scientists if he didn't think they were worth something. I opened the box again and felt around inside. Silverware, still just silverware. I sighed and stared at the wood paneling. Pulling the drawer open again, I noticed something. The drawer was not as deep as the box.

I held the light up to the side of the box and there, down near the base, was a seam. I reached around the back, jammed my fingers into the gap between the drawer and the wall, and pulled to the side. The drawer scraped open and I had to stop myself from cheering.

Griffin's notebooks, tattered and wrinkled, were mine.

_**()**_

Woo, second chapter done.

Griffin and his backstory are mostly based on the book. One thing I disliked about the League comic was that they disregarded the pseudoscience Wells put into the creation of an invisible man. Namely, they were like "oh, the guy was albino? Well, Griffin uh… wasn't, yeah, that's how they know he ain't dead" when the lack of pigment in one's skin, eyes and hair was a key factor for Griffin's experiment to work. True, it's fiction and invisibility doesn't work as science anyways, but I think it's important to consider the original cannon.

For those of you who haven't read the book, and I don't blame you, Thomas Marvel was a homeless guy that Griffin forced into becoming his accomplice. He ends up with the invisible man's money and lab notes, though he denies it.

Cathy is reading about Lydia Bennet's scandalous elopement with George Wickham. Pride and Prejudice and whatnot.


	3. Chapter 3

_**(From the desk of Miss Catherine Earnshaw III)**_

Dearest Rodney,

I write to you in the hopes that someday I shall give you these letters and you shall read them and laugh. When I see you again we are sure to have a wonderful time.

My business is going very well, considering how many spiritual mediums are being proved fake by so many prying journalists. A few such spies for my beloved newspapers came in and tried to disprove my methods. I made the front page, you know. It was wondrous! I was so terribly excited to be featured in the newspaper, which as you know was such a source of joy for me during those years I was confined in my room. I only wish you could have been there to share the moment with me.

Where are you, anyhow? You simply disappeared one night and I haven't a clue what you might be up to. I do hope you return soon. I miss you terribly.

Love,

Cathy

_**()**_

It took another three years to decipher the notes, gather the supplies I needed, and to build the machine that would turn me invisible. I managed to steal a few white rats I could use to test my imitation serum and machine. The test rats were awful, nasty little creatures who bit me about a hundred times in a week and I'd know children back at the Dodger's place who'd had their noses gnawed off by sewer rats in the middle of the night. They're terrible little creatures but even that didn't make me feel better as they writhed in pain from the blood-bleaching formula. I did not sleep easy that night, and it wasn't just because I knew that I'd have to go through what they were going through if I wanted to achieve my goal. Griffin had tested the invisibility formula on a cat. I wondered if he'd felt guilty about it, even though animals are just dumb beasts.

In the end, my rats were invisible and I had to kill them. Invisible rats outside would be absolutely terrible. The creatures became visible again when they were killed, just like Griffin had.

And then it was my turn.

I'm not a fan of medicine, as I've said before, there's just too much blood. I held the syringe full of opium and monocane up to the vein on my left arm. The needle caught the light and I hesitated. "God, that's a large thing to be stabbing into your arm," I murmured. Maybe this wasn't going to work after all; if I couldn't do this it wouldn't be done. I couldn't go out and find some doctor to help. "Hello, sir, might you be interested in turning me into the second invisible man? I'm not a fan of stabbing myself, you see." Anyone in his right mind would be off to get the police in no time and that didn't actually fit into my schedule well. It had to be done. I clenched my teeth and sunk the needle into my skin, forcing myself to watch as it hit the vein before I pushed down the plunger that shot the mixture into my blood.

For a few minutes nothing happened. I sat still on the floor, wondering if the serum would even work. My breathing slowed and I felt the drug mixture taking its effects. I relaxed back against the wall, a feeling of peace washing over me. Strange, it didn't hurt at all; maybe the effects were different on humans than they were on rats. I didn't think or worry about the scientific implications of that thought, namely that if the serum didn't cause the same side effects it also might not bleach my blood correctly. Everything was going to be fine; there was a strange tingling feeling in my fingertips and toes. I giggled as the sensation moved up into my arms, legs, torso, soon I was tingly all over. I laughed again, wiggling my fingers slowly. The feeling grew and continued to grow. The tips of my fingers started to sting. I stopped laughing. The stinging grew more painful. I clenched my teeth as the stinging moved slowly up my arms. There was a stab of pain in my chest. I gasped. My heart was on fire. I was burning from the inside out, I could feel it. The serum travelling through my veins was burning me. I dug my nails into my arms, trying as hard as I could not to scream. Screaming would reveal where I was hiding. Screaming would alert the police. Screaming would get me a date with the hangman's necktie. Screaming would kill me. But I was already dying.

So, while a more poetic man might have compared my writhing on the floor in pain from a blood-bleaching serum to the ghost-calling spasms of darling Catherine, I was more concerned with keeping myself quiet. Perhaps, if I'd been more myself I'd have thought about her and wondered what she was doing, but I hadn't seen the little bit in years and, again, I was writhing in pain as though my own blood was on fire. That kind of thing can really distract a man, you know? It's hard to get the blood boiling for a lady, no matter how lovely, when you feel as if your blood is actually boiling.

Luckily for me, I eventually passed out from the pain. I woke up the next day sore and bruised, but ultimately alright. I glanced around my dank surroundings. The abandoned shack was still, well, abandoned by the world. I dusted myself off and stumbled towards the cracked mirror in the corner. I had to make sure that the serum had worked, but how would I know?

I grinned. The blood-bleaching had obviously worked. The traces of red in my mouth and around my eyes, the slight lines of veins and arteries, and the last hint of pink in my skin had all disappeared. I could have been a stone statue if I stood still enough. That would've been entertaining. Who in their right mind would want a statue of a filthy thief like me? I laughed and struck a pose.

"Oh, monsieur," I said in my best French accent, "You think I would be zee best model for your sculpture? I don't know what to zay, I am le flattered, monsieur!"

There was only one thing left to do. I turned to the machine taking up half the room.

"Alright then, my freaky darling, here I come."

_**()**_

Less than an hour later I stood in front of the mirror again. Walking without seeing my own feet was going to take some getting used to. I'd had to cut my hair since the shoe polish hadn't turned invisible with me and I ran my hands over my head again. Nearly bald felt very strange, but it was still the least strange thing I'd done this day. I'd had to wash up since the layer of dirt on my skin showed off where I was about as well as if I was one of Cathy's ghosts. These clothes would have to go as well. Still, I figured I could get new clothes and make them invisible, too, which would save me the trouble of running around starkers in the London wintertime, when it came about. I glanced down at my feet, or really, where my feet were supposed to be. I wiggled my toes against the packed dirt floor. God, this was bizarre.

Now, I had noticed when I cut my hair that it was going to be difficult for me to steal things since even with my hand closed around something, you could still see it floating in midair. All my sleight of hand tricks would be next to useless if I couldn't use my own body to hide things. Even putting things in my mouth was useless. People may not have been bothered by a floating pocket watch before the invisible man's murder spree, but I doubted people had forgotten enough in just a few years that floating objects would go entirely unnoticed.

Breaking into houses would be easier, but getting out with enough loot to make it worth it would be nearly impossible. I needed a partner, someone who would be able to take my loot and carry it for me. Griffin had needed Thomas Marvel because he didn't have anyone else to turn to, any of his colleagues would have turned him in immediately. As for me, I wasn't that limited.

_**(From the desk of Miss Catherine Earnshaw III)**_

Dear Rodney,

I made the newspapers again, did you happen to see? The man said I'm one of the most gifted practitioners of voluntary possession of the age. Hear that? "One of" that means there are more people like me, Rodney. Can you imagine?

In fact, he said one of his collegues had shown interest in working with me, figuring out the science of séances. Can you imagine that? Devices that could help one find ghosts or summon them. One could speak at one's own funeral, comforting your loved ones. Or really, death in itself could become meaningless!

It's a brave new world of technology, Rodney, and they're asking me to help. I only wish you were here with me, I'm certain that you could provide valuable insight and much needed support. I wish you'd come back Rodney, I'm starting to think I may never see you again and all these letters will be written for nothing.

Always yours,

Cathy

_**()**_

I sat outside the door of Alfie's favorite pub. We'd grown apart since he'd got a fine upstanding job. Last time I'd seen him he had two kids already, though it only mattered as much as they'd come around begging him for money when he got it. To be honest, it was the second closest I'd ever seen to a real family and between his kids screaming and Cathy sitting quietly in her room, waiting for her own father to stop hating her, I have to say, I preferred my own childhood to these sad examples of family.

The cheering in the pub grew louder and I knew it was only a matter of time before Alfie would be kicked out into the streets. I heard his voice, singing an old drinking song at the top of his lungs, getting most of the words wrong. It faded into the rest of the voices and a few moments later he stumbled out, humming to himself and swaying a little as he walked.

I grinned, "Alfie, how about this now, old friend." He looked around, startled.

"Rodney? Where've you been, mate? Haven't seen you for years!" he paused, "Haven't seen you yet, where are you, Rodney, come on out."

"I'm right here, Alfie, I need your help with something," I tapped him on the shoulder. He whipped around and looked frightened when he didn't see me.

"Rodney… come on, this ain't funny, Rodney, what's going on?" he gasped, "You're dead, aren't you? You've come back to haunt me. Why'd you do that, Rodney, what'd I ever do to make you want to haunt me in the afterlife? Is it cause I took your sweet roll that one time a few years back and didn't tell you? Did another ghost tell you what I did? I'm so sorry about that, Rodney, please don't haunt me for the rest of my life, I can't deal with ghosts."

"Alfie, I'm not dead," I interrupted, "But thanks for telling me about that sweet roll thing, you know I punched Ralph in the face for that?"

"Well, I really wasn't going to tell you after I saw that," he flinched, "you're going to hit me now, aren't you?"

"Not right now, maybe later," I admitted, "right now, I need your help. You see, I'm invisible. I need a partner."

His eyes widened, "No, you mean like the scientist from a few years ago? The one out in Iping?"

I nodded but then remembered he couldn't see me anymore. "Yes, like that but with less murder and more money. You and I are gonna be rich, Alfie."

"Filthy rich, Rodney?"

"Filthy rich, Alfie."

_**()**_

We made a good team, Alfie and I, stealing all sorts of trinkets from wealthy houses in broad daylight even, if we felt like we needed a challenge. Whatever we gathered we sold to Dodger, who was still the best fence in London, even if we were too old to be part of his gang anymore. Life was great; we had enough money for food with plenty left over for entertaining ourselves. I bought clothes that were easy to slip on and off and a can of greasepaint, the kind actors use to make themselves look normal under all those lights, and a pair of dark glasses to cover my eyes. Alfie bought nothing but gin for the first few weeks but after that he would sometimes invest in supplies for his family. He even bought a doll for his daughter, Eliza. The two of us went out to see Burlesque shows because who could pass up a chance to see women in pants? Yes, yes, I know upstanding folks with tight-laced morals, such as the likes of all of you, wouldn't be caught dead in the middle of such a scandal. Well, forgive me for being low-brow and remember I was probably born in a ditch.

I still had to be careful to go out when it was dark and make sure not to open my mouth too wide, but it was nice to be able to go out and about without having to hold my breath and dodge anyone who came near me.

I even tried to go see Catherine once, through the front door and not climbing up the pipes and through the window this time. All dressed up in my new clothes, looking very fashionable for a former street urchin, the more money you have the more of it you're expected to spend on looking nice. Strange, I always thought that food was more important than appearances, but Cathy had told me there were many people who would rather starve than dress below their station, and that a few of those people actually had experience with starvation. I found it hard to believe, but while I was the expert on street life, she was the expert on fashion and rich folks. If I wanted to be a gentleman, I had to act like one, which meant fashionable clothes were something I'd have to figure out eventually.

I knocked on the door, the sound muffled by my gloves. A woman who looked about forty five years old answered. "Good day… sir." She said as though she wasn't sure if she should be calling me "sir."

"Good day to you, madam," I tipped my hat, not taking it off since it might have smudged my grease paint. She narrowed her eyes at my accent; it usually had that effect on people above me on the social ladder. "Is Catherine Earnshaw at home?"

The woman stiffened when I mentioned Cathy's name, "Miss Earnshaw grew tired of the city air and moved out to her family estate in Yorkshire."

My heart sank a little. I'd been looking forward to seeing her again. "Oh, well, in that case I'll just leave." I turned to go and heard the door slam shut behind me. As soon as it did, I turned into the alley on the side of the house. I looked around to make sure nobody was watching and slipped off my gloves, sticking them in the deep pockets of my coat. Grabbing a hold of the pipe, I scrambled up to the balcony like I always had. Cathy's room was empty, alright, so the woman hadn't been lying about her being away. I guess she had to have gone back to the moors.

I slid down the pipe to the ground and pulled my gloves back over my hands. It was too bad I didn't know where in Yorkshire her manor-house was. I missed my dear Cathy, but there was nothing for it, I'd probably never see her again.

I glared at a small rock in my path and kicked it across the street. I hadn't even told her what my plan was, hadn't bothered to go and see her when I got back into London, hadn't gotten to tell her that she looked top-notch every time I'd seen her. What could I do about it now? Not bloody much. And now I'd scuffed up my nice new shoes in the dirt. Ah well, it didn't matter if I looked like a gentleman anyways. What use is a gentleman without a lady, after all?

_**(From the desk of Miss Catherine Earnshaw III)**_

Dearest Rodney,

I am writing this letter knowing for a fact that it shall never reach you, for I do not know your address and it is quite possible that you do not have one. Please excuse my frankness; your company has that effect on me. It is something Mrs. Dean has told me countless times is unladylike. Why, sometimes, I even notice myself speaking with your lilt, isn't that curious? I daresay my entire family questions my moral character for it, but they can do nothing of it.

That is, it used to be they could do nothing of it.

The main purpose of this letter is to inform you that I have moved back to my family's manor house in Yorkshire, Thrushcross Grange. It is a dismal and secluded place where I hope I shall still be able to continue my career as a spiritual medium as well as continue my work in the sciences of the formerly living. In fact, it might even be a boon to my business, holding séances in such a gloomy setting. I wished to inform you of this so that you might come and visit me one day, but as the moving day approaches and you remain absent from my balcony, I do not hold the hope that I shall ever see you again.

Due to this unfortunate turn of events and the fact that I am confident this letter shall never be read by anyone, I am about to be unashamedly forward about a delicate subject. I greatly admire you, Rodney. I have been fascinated by you ever since you stumbled into my room almost ten years ago. Over time, that fascination turned to fondness and that fondness turned into a secret adoration that I have kept quiet for quite some time. If you asked me, right this moment, to marry you, I would do it without hesitation. We'd create such a scandal it would be in papers around the world that very week, and I wouldn't care a whit.

Perhaps I only feel this way since it is a purely hypothetical situation. I know for a fact that you will never ask this of me and so I can make all my claims, but I like to believe that I am being sincere. I like to believe that I would forsake everything for you. I like to believe it might have been a possibility that you could have admired me as well, that I was more than just the sickly looking girl who could talk to ghosts. However, I doubt that this could have been true.

I hope against hope that we may see each other once more, but I cannot wait forever, Rodney.

Lovingly yours,

Cathy

_**()**_

I wandered the streets completely invisible sometimes, just for the freedom of it. You had to stay away from crowds and the filthy puddles of water, but watching people going about their lives was strangely comforting. It was summertime and the sun beat down on the street. I could feel the heat reflecting off of the buildings around me. I'd found that since I became invisible, the sun didn't irritate my skin at all. It was very strange to be out in the sun without clothes and a large, ragged hat to protect me from burns. I grinned; it was funny to think of how all these people would react if they could see me, just standing there, naked, watching them.

A man in a suit passed me by, looking at his pocket watch. I reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. He jerked around, looking directly at me, or through me, really. For a moment he stuttered and glanced around, confused, but then he shrugged it off and continued on his way.

I heard the bells of some clock strike four in the afternoon. When Alfie and I weren't doing anything, this was usually when I would wander out to a park to convince people walking alone that they were mad by talking with them. I'd had some interesting conversations, but today I didn't really care. I went home instead. Actually, the rickety one-room shack where I'd built Griffin's machine wasn't really "home" but it was where I slept, ate and stored my things, so it was pretty close. I pulled the cork out of a bottle of gin and took a swig. Cheap stuff, but it was still good. I watched as the alcohol made its way down to my stomach and disappeared. Food usually took a while longer to go away, anywhere from one to three hours, but it would go away eventually. Meanwhile, I wore my jacket or tried not to look down at myself. I tell you, I've learned more about what happens in the human stomach than I ever wanted to know since I turned invisible. And it is not pretty.

There were a lot of small drawbacks like that. I couldn't go out invisibly for a while after I ate. And even then, it was best if I didn't eat very much. I had to keep myself clean of dirt, but the water I used to wash would hang on my skin for a while. If I got myself cut on something, the blood would turn visible as it got sticky and scabbed, so I had to be very careful. I also learned that other body fluids became visible once they hit the open air. So wanking in public was only for the days when I was feeling very brave or stupid.

That was another thing I hadn't thought through before becoming invisible. It was bloody hard to get laid. Thanks to Griffin, I had to be as stealthy as I could and not let anyone know about my… condition. Alfie knew, but he was my partner in crime, he had to. Any one else was untrustworthy. Anyone could turn me in to the police, especially a terrified working girl. Even in the complete dark, which rarely was the case for the back-alley jobs I could afford, I'd have to find my clothes afterwards. I'd have to find all of my clothes, not to mention making sure my grease paint didn't smear away, all in complete darkness, knowing that if anything was out of place, this lovely lady could run off screaming into the night and my gig would be up.

No matter, I had a decent life, I could figure out how to fix this problem later if it became more of an issue.

I slipped into my coat and buttoned it up. I was hungry after a long day of wandering around London on an empty stomach. Before I could tear off a chunk of bread, there was a knock at the door. I sighed and moved to put on a pair of pants, my paint, and my gloves. The knocking grew louder and whoever it was kept rattling the door, but it was locked tight. When I was done, I unlocked and opened the door.

The man standing there looked middle class. Not wealthy but not dirt poor. He wore a suit similar to the ones I'd seen Dr. Cranely wear outside of the lab. Perhaps he was also a scientist. My blood ran cold. What was a scientist doing here? He smiled at me, his moustache turning up at the corners, but I could tell he was not happy.

"Mr. Rodney Skinner?" He asked.

I frowned at him, "Who wants to know?"

"Dr. John Watson of the British Intelligence Agency. No, you've never heard of us. That's because it's a secret organization. We're here to offer you employment." He sounded bored as he absentmindedly toyed with the handle of his walking stick, as if he'd given a similar speech many times before.

"Well, that sounds lovely, but excuse me if I'm not interested." I began to close the door.

"I don't think you understand, Mr. Skinner, we know your secret. If you refuse to cooperate, we shall have to take you in by force where you will be tried for crimes against nature and the English government."

I froze, "You know? How?"

Dr. Watson sighed, "Science, of course. You were a bit of a challenge, Mr. Skinner, led me on quite a chase, I have to admit, it was actually enjoyable, but you can't hide from me," he paused, as if thinking something over, "Tell you what, I really did enjoy finding you. Let's say I give you a few minutes head start. Keep in mind; you've lost your ally. Yes, we know about Mr. Doolittle, and I must congratulate you on being able to greatly improve upon the original invisible man's plans. However, you are alone now. You won't last long. On the other hand, you could make this easier for all of us and just come with me."

"I think I'll take my chances."

He pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at it, "Five minute head start it is, then." And with that, he turned around with a military click of his heels and walked away. Five minutes. I had five minutes to get as far away from here as I could. I couldn't just leave the machine and notebooks lying around, but I also couldn't take anything with me. I stared at the bottles of gin on the floor. There was only one thing to do.

It nearly broke my heart to light my beautiful machine on fire. The design had been Griffin's but this one I'd painstakingly put together all on my own. She was a beauty, and now I had to destroy her: her and the notebooks, and all my other possessions, for that matter. I couldn't take any of it with me. I struck the match and dropped it in the damp mess. I looked down where the notebooks lay in their own puddle. On second thought, maybe the method didn't have to die. I grabbed the books and left the shack in flames. Quickly ducking into an alley way so I wouldn't call attention to myself, I searched for a place to hide the books. I continued to move through the streets, looking for somewhere safe, somewhere I could get back to them. At the same time, I had to keep moving. I didn't know how that agency man had found me, but I was absolutely terrified that he'd do it again. It didn't matter what he said about a job, I knew that no one in their right mind would allow the second invisible man to live after what the first one had done, and it didn't help that I was a criminal, no matter how harmless. If I was caught, they would not let me live.

I stashed the books in a hole in a wall in an alley, almost impossible to find unless you knew what you were looking for. The notebooks blended in with the soot covered brick. Feeling confident that the knowledge was safe where no one else could get it, I slipped out of the alleyway and went to find somewhere to hide.

_**(From the desk of Miss Catherine Earnshaw III)**_

Dearest Rodney,

You'll never believe what has happened to me. I cannot tell you the specifics, but the man who came to see me has given me a full time job at his agency. Perhaps you had already inferred this from my previous letters, but that is not my news. I have met someone who I think you would like greatly. He is a man of science, Mr. Darius. We are working together on a machine that will sense ethereal presence without the need for a medium's ectoplasmic emissions. So far, we have nothing, but the research is coming along quickly.

He is a strange man, sometimes I am not sure whether or not he is joking about things he says. I have been told he was married and that his wife worked in the agency as well, but she died on the job. Isn't that fascinating? And don't you laugh at me and call me morbid, Rodney, you know my philosophy on life.

Or perhaps you don't. It has been quite a long time since we have seen each other. In any case, I believe it is best to put on a good show. What does it matter if one lives a long and happy life during which nothing interesting happens?

I will not live a boring life, Rodney. I think you would understand this, if you were here. I refuse to die having contributed nothing to this world and having had no adventures. I plan on using my inventions in the field, you know. Now that paranormal research has been confirmed as actual science and we are being privately funded by the government (in secret, so keep it hush-hush, if you don't mind) more people are coming to us with evidence. And with evidence are the problems. The formerly living who are so angry that they have begun to destroy property and lives; they were just stories before now and went unchecked, but I can fix this.

Perhaps you'd write this off as the ravings of a madwoman, and perhaps I am, but I still think there's the possibility that you'd understand if you ever came back.

Yours truly,

Cathy

_**()**_

The weeks I spent running from the Agency and Dr. Watson was quite possibly the worst week of my life. Before I could find reliable shelter, it began to rain. I was wet, cold, and slightly visible with nowhere to go to dry off. I caught a nasty cold from being outside in the wet for days on end, huddling in the back of an alley, praying no one would see me. I couldn't find any food, although that didn't matter much since I had no where I could safely eat and digest for a couple of hours. I hadn't known hunger pains like this since before I'd joined the Dodger's group.

A week passed and my sickness got worse. I was light headed and dizzy, the air was far too hot one minute and a few minutes later I would be curled up as tightly as I could be, freezing to death. I couldn't go to a doctor, I didn't know what was wrong so I couldn't steal a cure, I couldn't even think straight half the time. Food, drink and rest were all too risky for me. Still, in the back of my mind I knew that if I didn't find a way out of this, I would die.

There's only so long one can stand that kind of physical torment when another option is available, and while I'm not one to give up life so quickly, it's amazing how the idea of a slow death from disease and dehydration can warm a man to the idea of a quick, military-style execution. If only I knew for certain that is what they would be offering me.

I wasn't fully awake when Dr. Watson finally found me again and I wasn't actually certain what he said to me. Fever does that to a man, makes everything feel like a dream where your head is stuffed with feathers, your throat is dry and the idea of eating anything makes you retch in the corner for hours on end. He made a motion with his cane and a group of men in white coats rushed over, picked me up and carried me towards a fancy-looking coach. The inside was red, deep red. I lay on the plush seat where the white-coats had set me down and stared at the ceiling. The Doctor came in and sat on the other bench. I looked over at him for a moment. My vision blurred and darkened and I fell asleep in the deep, dark red.

_**()**_

Does Dr. Watson even need an introduction? I didn't think so.

Actually, because I super like writing bored and lonely Watson as employed by the British Intelligence Agency I'm changing the trajectory of this fic. It's going to be a lot longer and different than I had originally planned, but ultimately, I hope it will still be good.

I certainly hope you all are enjoying this as much as I am, because that would mean you're having a great time.


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